


Alexander Basilton

by spraycansoul



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Hamilton - Miranda, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: -Ish, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hamilton - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Music, SnowBaz, so many hamilton references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spraycansoul/pseuds/spraycansoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Baz, this is an intervention. You’re obsessed.” He says this seriously, like a diagnosis, as he follows me to our bedroom.</p><p>“I’m not obsessed,” I reply casually as I start getting dressed.</p><p>“You’re obsessed.”</p><p>In which Baz is Hamilton trash, and Simon's had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alexander Basilton

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea from [this post](http://whimsical012.tumblr.com/post/144577203908/viva-la-snowbaz-whimsical012-sirreadsalot) on Tumblr. Shoutout to @sirreadsalot on Tumblr for the headcanon. I'm a few days late but it was too fun to pass up.
> 
> If you haven't listened to the soundtrack of Hamilton, I strongly suggest you do!!!

#### 

SIMON

Baz has discovered Hamilton, and I regret ever showing it to him.

It’s been a week since I made the horrible mistake of playing 'The Schuyler Sisters' in the car, and he’s been hooked ever since. I’ve been a casual fan of the musical for months—that Lin-Manuel Miranda is something of a genius—but Baz has taken it to a whole new level. He’s already made the effort to memorise every song on the soundtrack, raps included. He plays it on loop every morning on his way to work. 

He even bought me a t-shirt that reads BEST OF WIVES AND BEST OF WOMEN, which I never wear; he says it’s funny because I am neither a wife nor a woman. (Which is true, but still.) (Baz likes to tease me—it’s an integral part of our relationship.)

Today, I overhear him singing—er, rapping—in the shower. He goes through all of the verses of the opening song, but instead of Alexander Hamilton:

“ALEXANDER BASILTON. My name is ALEXANDER BASILTON. And there’s a million things I haven’t done, just you wait! Just you wait!”

Ladies and gents, Tyrannus “Alexander” Basilton Grimm-Pitch has officially lost it.

#### BAZ

When I step out of the shower, Simon is waiting for me.

“Have fun in there?” he asks me. He’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, with an amused half-smile on his face. His eyes flick down to my bare chest, and even lower to where my towel hangs low on my waist. 

“What are you looking at, Snow?” I sneer, out of habit.

His face cracks open and he busts out laughing. “Alexander _Basilton_?” He’s laughing so hard, he’s clutching his stomach.

If I could blush, I’d be a bloody tomato. “Shut up,” I mumble, pushing past him.

“Baz, this is an intervention. You’re obsessed.” He says this seriously, like a diagnosis, as he follows me to our bedroom. 

“I’m not obsessed,” I reply casually as I start getting dressed. 

“You’re obsessed.”

“Crowley, Snow, I’m not obsessed!” I insist, shoving on a random black jumper on. “I just love the music."

I am obsessed, though. But he doesn’t have to know that.

When I turn around to face him, he looks at me solemnly. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

He gestures to my jumper and cracks a smile. “Sure you aren’t.”

I look down to see what his talking about, and there it is. My jumper is black, with the golden star that reads HAMILTON on my chest.

I slap a hand to my face. “Aleister Crowley.”

#### SIMON

And the worst part? The spells.

Between the two of us, Baz is the better singer. (Even though I would never admit it to his face.) I love his voice—really, I do—but his sing-alongs are risky. His magic seems to latch on to lyrics that can be spells, which he finds hilarious because it’s usually just me who gets inconvenienced. 

The first time we discovered it, I was in the middle of making breakfast, and he was in the middle of shouting the lyrics to 'My Shot'.

“I don’t have a gun to brandish,  
I walk these streets famished.  
**The plan is to fan this spark into a flame** ,  
but damn, it’s getting dark, so let me spell out the name.  
I am the—"

He was abruptly cut off by the sight of our electric stove catching fire. I yelled at him to put it out, scrambling to the other side of the kitchen island and, in a panic, he’d shouted, “ **Make a wish!** ”

When the fire was put out and the only established casualties were the eggs I was cooking, Baz started laughing hysterically. 

“The lyrics are literally magic!” He clapped excitedly. I stalked out of the room; I was not so amused.

#### BAZ

The lyrics are literally magic.

Most of them are funny and harmless, of course. Case in point: yesterday, when I’d accidentally casted **Everything we said in total agreement** in the middle of a spectacular performance of 'Satisfied', Snow couldn’t say a word against me. He would say, “That song is so good! Turn it up!”, but he looked outraged. His frustration was endearing. 

Another time, **Geniuses, lower your voices** caused him to speak in whispers for an hour. He yelled at me for the next hour to make up for it.

He’ll never admit that **Why do you write like you’re running out of time?** saved him hours of poring over an essay he had to submit the next day. Or that **Summon all the courage you require** gave him all the confidence he needed for the job interview he had last weekend.

Of course, I stay away from 'Burn' and all other fire-related lyrics. I’m careful not to set anything else in our flat on fire.

Tonight, I try to make it up to him, but as soon as he climbs into bed, he turns away from me to the face the window.

“Simon.”

“What.”

“Look at me, please.” 

“Why should I?” he scoffs. I can’t tell if he’s serious or teasing.

“Because I’m sorry."

He hesitates a moment, his tail twitches upward. And then he shifts around to face me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I promise I’ll tone it down for you. This’ll be the last—"

“What do you mean, ‘this’ll be the last—"

#### SIMON

He grabs my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine. His lips are soft and warm and taste like cherries. I melt into the kiss, into his hands, and my resolve to ignore him is gone.

When he pulls away, his thumbs rub circles in my cheeks as he starts singing softly:

“Boy, you got me helpless,  
Look into your eyes and the sky’s the limit, I’m helpless  
Down for the count and I’m drownin’ in ‘em.”

I crack a smile, and he’s forgiven.

The lyrics are literally magic.


End file.
